


a quick wake-me-up

by bugbiter



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: (crawls out of writing hole) its been 3000 years, Coffee Shops, First Meetings, Multi, Reader-Insert, based on that one nathan reads shakespeare monologue, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 04:12:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18865462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bugbiter/pseuds/bugbiter
Summary: You're trying to make it through your morning shift when you get a, uh... kind of interesting customer.Nathan tries to inconspicuously order a coffee and muffin before a concert, and forgets how to act like a human being.





	a quick wake-me-up

**Author's Note:**

> hi i have not written a reader insert in ages :*) i tried to keep it as gender neutral and easy to insert urself into as possible so i hope that i fulfilled that!!! i hope you all enjoy and i would love to do more reader inserts soon because they're really fun for me
> 
> i also take suggestions (sfw + nsfw) on tumblr @morteluminaa

Working in one of the larger cities in your area, especially in retail, wasn’t always fun; nor was it ever exciting like other jobs on your block. You got to talk to a lot of people, which you supposed was considered a good thing… but being a barista made it so that pretty much everyone you were talking to was sleep deprived and in need of some major caffeine. As someone with a habit of a morning coffee yourself, you kind of understood being irritable in the mornings, so you usually didn’t mind too much. Plus, a few of your regular customers were always up for nice small talk and under the table tips that made your shift a little easier to bear. It wasn’t all bad, but it was pretty mundane. Heading in through the back entrance, you allowed one of your coworkers, a taller guy who’s name always escaped you, to tie your apron. 

He was nice— kind of cute, too—but that kind of unassuming personality that didn’t stick out in your head too much. Your taste in men tended to border on more intimidating figures: someone who could part a crowd from his sheer aura, or could turn heads. Your mind conjured the image of you walking home, a large silhouette by your side with an assuring broad hand on your shoulder. It was a comforting idea for you. Most of your friends had never agreed on that. Regardless, your job hadn’t done much for your social life, and especially not for your romantic affairs. You gave the guy a sharp nod of gratitude, focusing back on your job, and hurried to the register, setting up at your station and adjusting your hat. 

Your customers for the first few hours of your shift were alright— a few mothers with babbling children, an elderly woman who had tipped you for handing her the freshest apple turnover —nothing out of the ordinary, and no one had been a dick to you yet, which meant it was a good day. You pivoted on your heel, turning to another worker, a short girl with a large bun of dreadlocks barely contained by a hairnet. Her name was Denise, or something like that, but you usually called her Dee around work. You two shared shifts together sometimes, and occasionally shared a discarded coffee or pastry during break, if you were lucky. 

“Hey, Dee,” you called, grabbing her attention. “Can you grab a bottled iced vanilla frappe for me please?” You gestured to the man in front of your register, already looking rather impatient despite having been there not more than 20 seconds. She glanced over, mouth twitching in what you recognized as a stifled grimace before giving you a quick “uh-huh” and heading back to the fridge. You looked back to your customer, smile as artificial as ever, and tried to make small talk. Asking about his day, complimenting his watch, whatever. Despite the minimal effort, he didn’t seem to be giving you more than one or two word answers though, so Dee bringing the bottle to your tensed hand was a blessing. You handed it to him, folded receipt next to it, and thanked him for his patience.

The response was a grumble and a turn on his heel.

You sighed as he walked out the door, turning from the area of the cafe where customers could see to groan in discomfort. Though you understood customers who got snippy or impatient with you, it didn’t make your job feel any easier. Dee gave you an apologetic smile. “Don’t worry about it. It’s been getting kinda hot, and I know I’d be a little PO’d if I had to stay outside for even ten seconds more than I had to.” You laughed at that, nodding in agreement, before hearing someone clear their throat behind you. Shit, you had forgotten you were on the clock! Turning to your register, you got your bearings and remembered what you needed to do. Focus. Ugh, God, you were _really_ not on your A-game today...

“Hello and welcome to the Duncan Hills cafe, what can I get for you today—“ Looking up, you made immediate eye contact with someone’s chest. 

Oh, uh… _wow._

Eyes glancing up further, you finally made eye to eye contact with a man who must have been something like seven feet tall. His eyes, framed by strong brows and sculpted cheekbones, made him look gruff and almost a little irritated. His black hair, parted a bit off center, draped on one shoulder, and seemed to melt into the dark shirt and jeans that clung to his giant frame. He was nothing like any of the customers you had gotten today, or your last shift, or any shift you could remember. He grunted, squinting at the menu for an uncomfortably long amount of time before a hand was placed on the counter, as big as the rest of him. His nails were even cut and painted with a thick black lacquer, and it kind of made you want to save up for a manicure yourself.

“Large black coffee,” His voice, low like an animal growl, rumbled through the air and sent a shiver up and down your spine. He paused, unsure, before adding a quick “uh… and a blueberry muffin. Thanks.” Though he looked like he could be some kind of bodyguard or bouncer or, hell, even a pro-wrestler, you could tell that he was a little uncomfortable ordering. You smiled, bright as the morning, and turned to the bakery racks, using a pair of tongs to pluck one of the fresher muffins into a paper bag. A coworker you couldn’t see placed a coffee by the man in record time, surprising you by time you handed him the baked good and started to ring his order. Usually the people in the back _never_ worked that fast: was this guy some kind of bad news? Whatever it was, you pulled a red marker from your apron pocket. This part was always your favorite of getting hot orders. The reputation of this customer, whatever it was, would not ruin that for you.

“Your name, sir?” 

He seemed taken aback for a second, eyebrow twitching and hand a bit tense. “Uh… why.”

Guess he hadn’t been to a Duncan Hills before. You stood up straight, filing your brain for the bit of preamble you had to say when this happened. “Oh, well, um, Duncan Hills tries to make its coffee orders personal and gratifying for the customer... so on custom orders like your black coffee, we’ll write a name and message for the customer to make their day! You don’t have to, but it's something we pride ourselves on.” Not one-hundred percent verbatim, but it got the job done. He hummed in thought, tapping his index finger.

“Huh... I guess. You can put, uh. Nathan. On the cup.” You popped the cap off of the marker with your thumb, bending down to write. ‘Nathan’ first, in your nearest handwriting, and underneath, ‘Hope you enjoy your order! Don’t be a stranger!’ It was your go-to for new customers, and almost always raked them back in for at least a second visit. Lastly, you wrote your name, a bit smaller and out of the way. Lifting the cup a bit faster than you had intended, you handed it to him, almost dropping it and getting scalding coffee on your hand in the process. You made a little wince, hissing in pain at the sharp burn, but were much more relieved that it was you than him. You did not want to have to fill out injury claim witness forms again; they were always more trouble than they were worth. His eyes looked a bit sympathetic, and he lifted the coffee out of your way. "Hey—" He had started to speak, but you quickly cut him off without thinking. 

“Don’t worry, I’m okay,” you assured him, but it felt more like you were trying to assure yourself from crying. “When you work here, coffee burns are not rare, trust me.” You had expected him to say that he’d hoped you felt better or something, pay for his order, and leave, but he seemed fixated on the injury. With his free hand, Nathan took your wounded one, gentler than you had expected, turning it so that the red mark was on display for him to see. It felt, admittedly, a little intimate, and you briefly wondered why the hell no one was trying to say anything. No customers complained about how long he had taken, and no other workers were trying to get him off your case or even try and help you with your burn. Who the hell was this guy? What was his deal? 

“U-uh, _sir…_ ” You began, face beginning to burn red hot, before he let go, seeming embarrassed himself. He grabbed his pastry, tucking the loose end of the bag under his thumb with the hand he was holding coffee with, and handed you his card. He had even taken a bit of precaution, being sure to place it in your good hand. Your eyes widened, not only at how fast he had withdrawn, but the fact that his card was _black._

Weren’t these… for super rich people? He had hardly come off as wealthy with his attire and demeanor, no offense to him. As you inserted it to pay for his order, the name embossed on its surface struck you as familiar. Nathan Explosion. Huh. You were kind of bad at putting names to faces, but you’d remember it for later to ask someone like Dee, who was a lot better than you. Returning the card to him, you gave one last smile, making it count. Your manager always told you that what you said last was the most important. “Thank you for choosing Duncan Hills! Have a wonderful day, Mr. Nathan.” 

The corners of his mouth twitched upward in what could have almost been smile. “No problem, uh,” he turned the cup towards himself, and mumbled your name as an afterthought, as if trying to remember it for a test or something. “See ya ‘round.” As he left, you looked down to realize that you had forgotten to ask him if he wanted his receipt, but it looked like he had not only picked it up and put it back down at one point, but had scribbled something on it with one of the counter’s pens while you weren’t looking: most likely while you were working on the register order. In slanted, plain handwriting, it was his name, Nathan, and number. You stifled a snort. You usually wouldn’t give this kind of thing the time of day, just because it made work a little awkward, but... He had made an interesting impression, and the fact he was good looking and wealthy did not hurt one bit. You folded the slip of paper and put it in the pocket of your pants, underneath your apron to assure it wouldn’t fall out. You’d think about it after your shift.

It was only after said shift that you had realized why everyone had been so weird when he had come by. You sipped a lukewarm caramel latte, watching the news with little interest on your couch. As the weather faded out, shaky footage from some kind of venue showed a familiar face on a stage littered with spotlights and pyrotechnics. The lens zoomed in close, trying to focus through the hectic crowd, and though his face was caked with corpse paint and it had been a few hours since you two had met, you swore you saw a bit of muffin crumbs at the corner of his lip. You laughed, harder than you’d expected you were going to, and fished the receipt from your pocket. The footage faded out of the Dethklok Minute, and you realized that that’s where you remembered him from. Your peers, though you didn't talk to them much, had thrown the name of the band around more than a few times.

Sliding your still aching thumb over his signature, you decided that you’d give him a shot. If you two weren't a good match, it would at least be a good story to tell at parties or something.


End file.
